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We are so excited to reveal the cover of Alexandria Bellefleur's debut romance, Written in the Stars, and to share an early excerpt with you.
Here's why:
- queer rom-com!
- astrology!
- fake relationship!
- f/f Pride & Prejudice?! Elle and Darcy!
But you probably want to know more about the book and get to that cover, so let's get into it.
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About the Book:
In her debut with nods to Bridget Jones and Pride and Prejudice, Alexandria Bellefleur delivers a charming #ownvoices queer rom-com about a free-spirited social media astrologer who agrees to fake a relationship with an uptight actuary until New Year’s Eve—with results not even the stars could predict!
After a disastrous blind date, Darcy Lowell is desperate to stop her well-meaning brother from playing matchmaker ever again. Love—and the inevitable heartbreak—is the last thing she wants. So she fibs and says her latest set up was a success. Darcy doesn’t expect her lie to bite her in the ass.
Elle Jones, one of the astrologers behind the popular Twitter account, Oh My Stars, dreams of finding her soul mate. But she knows it is most assuredly not Darcy... a no-nonsense stick-in-the-mud, who is way too analytical, punctual, and skeptical for someone as free-spirited as Elle. When Darcy’s brother—and Elle's new business partner—expresses how happy he is that they hit it off, Elle is baffled. Was Darcy on the same date? Because... awkward.
When Darcy begs Elle to play along, she agrees to pretend they’re dating to save face. But with a few conditions: Darcy must help Elle navigate her own overbearing family during the holidays and their arrangement expires on New Year’s Eve. The last thing they expect is to develop real feelings during a fake relationship.
But maybe opposites can attract when true love is written in the stars?
About the Author:
Alexandria Bellefleur is an author of swoony contemporary romance often featuring loveable grumps and the sunshine characters who bring them to their knees. A Pacific Northwesterner at heart, Alexandria has a weakness for good coffee, Pike Place IPA, and Voodoo Doughnuts. Her special skills include finding the best Pad Thai in every city she visits, remembering faces but not names, falling asleep in movie theaters, and keeping cool while reading smutty books in public. She was a 2018 Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist. You can find her at www.alexandriabellefleur.com or on Twitter @ambellefleur.
The Stunning Cover:
Written in the Stars is out on November 10, 2020!
Where to Pre-Order (and support our site): Amazon ◊ Apple Books ◊ Barnes & Noble ◊ Bookshop Kobo ◊ Direct from Avon ◊ Add it on Goodreads
Excerpt:
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There was only so much chafing a girl could handle, and Elle Jones had reached her limit. Dodging strollers in front of Macy’s splashy holiday window displays and hustling to make it to the restaurant on time had caused the creep of her lace to quicken until her brand-spankin’-new underwear functioned more like a belt than the boy shorts they were. She could practically taste her spring-fresh laundry detergent.
Tugging through her dress had been futile. Shimmying certainly hadn’t done shit. Neither had casually leaning against the crosswalk pole and . . . gyrating? There was some hip action, but less trying to grind this pole to bring home the bacon and more bear in the woods with an insidious itch. Shoving her hand up her skirt had been a last resort, one with the unintended consequence of making it look like she was getting frisky with herself in front of Starbucks. The streets of Seattle had seen stranger things, but apparently not the dude leering from the passenger window of the mud-splattered Prius.
It was all because she’d chosen to wear this underwear, new underwear, sexier underwear than anything else wadded up in her dresser drawer. Not that she was expecting Brendon’s sister to see her underwear, but what if the date went well?
What if? Wasn’t that the million-dollar question, the spark of hope that kept her coming back for more time and time—and time—again? The butterflies in her stomach were a balm, each flutter of their wings soothing the sting of all those previous rejections and brush-offs until she could barely remember what it felt like when her phone didn’t ring. When the spark just wasn’t there.
First-date jitters? No, this feeling was magic, like glitter rushing through her veins. Maybe this dinner would go well. Maybe they’d hit it off. Maybe there would be a second date and a third and a fourth and—maybe this would be it, her last first date. Boom. End game. A lifetime of butterflies.
Wedgie-free, Elle stopped in front of the restaurant and breathed deep. Sweat darkened the powder blue cotton of her dress as she swiped her palms against her skirt, drying off her hands before reaching for the silver handle. She tugged and . . . the glass door barely budged, opening a fraction of an inch.
This restaurant was four-little-dollar-signs expensive, which begged the question—Were rich people seriously doing enough manual labor to have the muscle mass required to pry open these doors? Or were they ripped thanks to the personal trainers and private Pilates lessons they could afford? Elle pulled harder. Was there an access code? A buzzer she needed to press? Was she supposed to wave her credit card—with its admittedly dismal limit—in front of the door?
A hand with perfectly polished nails in the most boring shade of blush fluttered in front of her face through the glass. She straightened and—oh sweet Saturn. No wonder this place was so popular, prices and impossible doors be damned. With long, copper-colored curls and even longer legs, the hostess was the sort of unfairly gorgeous that graced the covers of magazines, pretty to the point it made her eyes hurt. Of course, it didn’t help that the glass reflected Elle’s own slightly blurry face. Her dishwater-blond bangs had separated and her liner had smudged around her eyes, making her look less smoky-eye sexy and more sweaty raccoon. Talk about a smack to the self-esteem.
“You’re supposed to push.” The hostess’s brown eyes darted down to the handle.
Elle pressed her palm to the glass. Featherlight, the door glided open smooth as butter. Despite the cool November air, her cheeks prickled with heat. Great going. At least her gaffe was only witnessed by herself and the hostess and not Brendon’s sister. Now that would’ve been a difficult impression to come back from.
“Thanks. They should really consider putting up a sign. Or, you know, not putting a handle on a push door.” She laughed and—okay, so it wasn’t funny, but the hostess could’ve done the decent thing and pretended. Elle wasn’t even asking for an enthusiastic chuckle, just the kind of under-your-breath puff of laughter that was polite because Elle totally had a point.
But no. The hostess gave her a tight smile, eyes scanning Elle’s face before she glanced down at her phone and sighed.
So far, the service sucked.
Rather than push her luck and make a bigger fool out of herself in front of the gorgeous hostess who’d rather futz around on her phone than do her job, Elle scanned the restaurant for someone who could be related to Brendon.
He hadn’t said much about his sister. Upon overhearing Elle discuss the perils of dating not only as a woman, but a woman who liked other women, Brendon had gotten this adorable, wide-eyed, puppy-dog look of excitement and said, You’re gay? So’s my sister, Darcy. Bisexual, but yeah, Elle was all ears. His smile had gone crooked, dimples deepening as his eyes sparkled with mischief. You know what? I think you two would really hit it off.
And who was she to say no when she’d been ranting to Margot about her shoddy luck in the love department? Saying no would’ve been silly.
All Brendon had told her was that Darcy would meet her at Wild Ginger at seven o’clock and, not to worry, he’d take care of their reservations. Maybe she was waiting at the bar. There was a petite blonde sipping a pink martini and chatting with the bartender. It could be her, but Brendon was tall and had broad shoulders. Perhaps it was the—
“Excuse me.”
She spun, facing the hostess who was no longer staring at her phone but instead looking at Elle, brows raised expectantly. “Uh-huh?”
God, pretty people made her stupid.
The hostess cleared her throat. “Are you meeting someone?”
At least now she wouldn’t have to do the awkward thing and approach every lone woman in the joint. “Yeah, I am. Last name on the reservation should be Lowell.”
Enviably full lips pursed as the woman’s eyes narrowed minutely. “Elle?”
Hold on. “No, Darcy. Unless Brendon put my name on the reservation? With her last name? That’s a little presumptuous, but okay.” She snorted. “I’ve been on plenty of first dates and I’ve never had one go that well if you catch my drift.”
“No, I mean you are Elle,” the hostess spoke slowly. “I am Darcy.”
Elle’s heart thudded, skipping over one beat and quickening on the next. “Darcy . . . is you? You are Darcy?” So . . . not the hostess.
She nodded.
Of course this was Brendon’s sister. This was just Elle’s luck, and now that she knew, the resemblance was quite obvious. They were both tall and slender and unfairly attractive. Granted, Brendon’s hair was darker, but it was definitely red, and they both had freckles. So many freckles it was like Darcy’s skin was a peachy-cream sky covered in pale brown stars begging to be mapped out, connected into constellations. They spilled over her jaw and dotted her throat, disappearing under the collar of her green swing dress, leaving their path to Elle’s vivid imagination.
Her toes curled, face flushing when Darcy’s eyes dipped, mirroring her own unapologetic perusal. She bit back a grin. Maybe it was a good thing she’d worn this underwear after all.
“You’re late.”
Oof. Or not. “I am, and I’m really sorry about that. But there was—”
Darcy held up a hand, forcing Elle to swallow her excuse.
“It’s fine. I’ve had a long day and I already settled my tab at the bar.” She pointed over Elle’s shoulder toward the door. “I was calling a Lyft.”
“What? No.” She was late, yeah, but only by a few minutes. Okay, fifteen, but that wasn’t her fault. “I really am sorry. I wanted to text you, but my phone died and it was like mommy roller derby in front of Macy’s. And let me tell you, those women are vicious with their strollers when there are sales at stake. Vicious. I swear to God, you’d think it was Black Friday. Can you believe they’ve already got Christmas decorations up? I’ve still got cobwebs and Jon Bone Jovi hanging in my apartment.” Her face flamed at Darcy’s puzzled frown. “He’s, um, my apartment skeleton. We thought it’d be humerus. Because . . . anyway.” She squared her shoulders and gave Darcy her most heartfelt smile. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight ever since your brother mentioned he thought we might hit it off. Let me buy you another drink?”
She held her breath as Darcy deliberated, fingers pressed to the space between her brows as if she was staving off a headache.
After an excruciating moment of silence where Elle struggled not to squirm, Darcy dropped her hand and offered a ghost of a smile. “One drink.”
***
Written in the Stars is out on November 10, 2020.
Where to Pre-Order (and support our site): Amazon ◊ Apple Books ◊ Barnes & Noble ◊ Bookshop Kobo ◊ Direct from Avon ◊ Add it on Goodreads
